


blown by the wind

by parcequelle



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: There’s a part of Kathryn that wants it right now, wantsBeverly, wants to throw all semblance of maturity out the window and just jump, but whatever rational part of her remains is telling her: go slowly. The time will come. Let it grow.





	blown by the wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Star Trek Femslash Big Bang 2017.

Kathryn is floating on a dreamless plane somewhere between sleeping and waking, the sun spilling warm on her face, when something pulls her back into consciousness. It takes a moment for her to get her bearings, a task made more difficult by her unwillingness to open her eyes, but she eventually murmurs, ‘Hmm?’

‘I said that I can’t feel my arm,’ Beverly says. Her smirk is audible.

Kathryn opens her eyes and the smirk is right there, framed in a waterfall of hair more blond than red in the sunlight. The words filter through to Kathryn’s hazy brain and she chuckles, raises herself onto her elbows so Beverly can extricate her arm. ‘I’m sorry, it would appear I fell asleep on you.’

‘I can see they didn’t promote you just for kicks.’

‘You may mock,’ Kathryn says gravely, ‘but don’t forget it’s my privileges that got us this place.’

‘Your shamelessness, more like.’ Beverly tilts her near-empty glass in Kathryn’s direction and says, ‘Here’s to you, Admiral.’

‘Yes, yes. Pass me a _vol-au-vent_ , would you?’

Beverly rolls her eyes but does as she’s asked. ‘Do you ever wonder why, after two hundred years of warp capability, we’re still roaming the galaxy just to eat food we could replicate on Earth?’

Kathryn pauses, pastry to her lips, and narrows her eyes. ‘Are you trying to ruin my vacation for the purpose of research on stress, or is this just your usual brand of cruelty?’

‘Is there any way I can answer that question and come out on top?’

The joke Kathryn won’t make hangs in the air between them, unvoiced, but Beverly snorts anyway.

‘Fine, then,’ Kathryn says. She shimmies up her lounge chair and raises the sunshades from her eyes, trying for contrite. ‘You’ve successfully chastised me for my cultural pigheadedness. Would it appease you if I were to offer to take you to dinner at the Bajoran restaurant on the pier? The one you’ve been eyeing longingly for the last two days?’

Beverly affects a kind of wide-eyed, girlish innocence that makes Kathryn wish, with an unexpected vehemence, for the opportunity to watch her onstage. Her voice is all studied casualness as she says, ‘Oh, I suppose so. If you like.’ Beverly glances down at her swimsuit and sarong and adds, ‘But we should probably head back to the cabin and change our clothes first.’

*

Six months before this, they meet on a mission, assigned to oversee the transport of a series of delicate vaccines and medical technology from the Krithian homeworld to Starfleet Medical. The Krithians are new Federation members, their technology advanced and intimidating enough to warrant chaperoning by Starfleet’s Chief Medical Officer, her two trusted assistants, and a decorated admiral with a famous face. Kathryn’s cynicism isn’t enough to outweigh her desperate desire to get away from her desk and back onto a starship, and so she accepts; Beverly does much the same for the same reasons.

They are properly introduced when they share a shuttle out to the _Honolulu_ , and it takes Kathryn all of five minutes to decide that she likes her. The mission is uneventful, the ride home smooth, and it affords them ample time to bond over the evils of their promotions, the difficulty of maintaining deep space friendships when subspace channels are down, and the inadequacy of replicated pavlova. By the time they return to Starfleet Headquarters, they are friends.

*

Kathryn had wrangled them a bungalow a short walk out of the central harbour. Despite the short notice, she had pulled out her dusty but still-functional Delta Quadrant Captain Face and sweet-talked their way into a five-day stay. Now, tang of salt on her tongue, the glassy blue water stretching out to embrace the forest to the east, she breathes deep and thinks, not for the first time, that running away was the right thing to do.

With the kind of silent understanding forged by long, slow days spent alone in each other’s company, they take the scenic route home to avoid the marketplace. It’s bustling at this time of day, full of laughter and spices and cloth and all species of tourist; Kathryn would normally drink in the colour with gusto, but today, she can’t resist the appeal of meandering along the quiet forest track in the waning light.

As they walk, she feels the warm press of an arm against her own, and Beverly says, ‘You’re very quiet. Are you afraid they’ll send out a search party? Track us down and dishonourably discharge us for drinking electric blue cocktails on the beach?’

‘Not likely.’ Kathryn grins, allows herself to lean into the pressure, a little. ‘I’ve convinced Alynna Nechayev to run damage control.’

She would be willing to admit that the look of carefully-hidden surprise on Beverly’s face is just a little bit gratifying.

‘Admiral Nechayev,’ Beverly says. ‘Interesting.’ They walk a few metres on, greet the young Trill couple staying in a neighbouring bungalow as they pass. Then Beverly says, ‘I wasn’t aware the two of you were friends.’

Kathryn stops, turns to her with one eyebrow raised. ‘Now, Beverly, I hope this isn’t your way of telling me you put any stock in those unsubstantiated rumours about our rivalry.’

Beverly hip-checks her, and though the sudden movement surprises Kathryn into laughter, she catches herself before she can overbalance. ‘Of course not,’ Beverly scolds. ‘I know better than that. Do you know, just last week I happened to scroll through the latest issue of _Fleet & Greet_ and discovered, to my great astonishment, that Jean-Luc and I have been secretly married for years.’

‘Really?’ Kathryn stops, eyes her seriously. ‘And are you happy?’

Beverly stops, too, smile impish. ‘We were in the beginning, but it’s as good as over, now. I’m thinking of leaving him for someone else.’ Her eyes crinkle, playful and sly. ‘Someone higher up in the chain of command.’

‘Admiral Nechayev?’

‘Well, after finding out that she’s willing to cover for us while we play hooky, I certainly wouldn’t rule it out.’

There’s a part of Kathryn that’s too impatient to see this thing through to its likely conclusion – the part that tracks Beverly’s movements out the corner of her eye as she walks; as she bends to examine goods in the lively, brightly-coloured stalls; as her eyes flutter closed in pure enjoyment of her food. There’s a part of Kathryn that wants it right now, wants _Beverly_ , wants to throw all semblance of maturity out the window and just jump, but whatever rational part of her remains is telling her: go slowly. The time will come. Let it grow.

That part of her is still winning, and it’s at moments like these, warmth and inevitability thick between them, that Kathryn thinks that’s exactly as it should be. Beverly’s skin is so pale that Kathryn can always see the moment she starts to blush – she fixes her own eyes straight ahead of her, bites down a smile.

The path to their cabin cuts through the forest, all lush trees with overhanging branches bleeding ripe fruit, rich with colours they don’t often see on Earth. The air is wet and thick and Kathryn hates it – hates the way it clogs her ears and clouds her mind, the way her clothes refuse to separate from her skin – but puts up with it for the sake of Beverly’s charmingly child-like excitement. Kathryn’s humid-climate trauma stems from her mother having forced her to play tennis even at the sticky zenith of Indiana’s summers; Beverly’s bright eyes and fearless curiosity stem from sorrow on Caldos tempered, on the good days, by scientific purpose.

When Kathryn spies the dark, dense copse of _hirsa_ trees to their right, she inclines her head. ‘Do you want to see if we can find any more of them?’

Beverly grabs Kathryn’s hand in her own, eyes bright. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘No, I don’t, I…’

But Beverly is beaming at her, blinding, and it startles the words from her lips. ‘Wonderful!’

She releases Kathryn’s hand to pull her tricorder out of her pack, and Kathryn’s sharp awareness of the loss makes her stifle a laugh at herself. Admiral Janeway indeed: when it comes to this woman, she could be sixteen and helpless to her hormones, thinking herself upside down into circles over a wayward look, a lingering touch. Kathryn’s tricorder has been on strike since they fled Starbase 6, perhaps in protest at her lack of professionalism, so she uses the opportunity to lean over Beverly’s shoulder and watch her scan. ‘Anything?’

‘Yes, we were right – it does look like there are more of them, just further north than we walked yesterday. Shall we?’

Kathryn makes an elaborate gesture. ‘Lead on, Doctor.’

They head deeper into the forest, single-file on a narrow track carved more by determination than incident, and they are only walking for a few minutes before Beverly stops and points out a small patch of tubelike flowers, sheltered in the damp of a gold-edged fern. ‘This is it,’ she says, eyes fixed on her tricorder readouts as she walks over. ‘It’s the same plant. Climate, patterns of growth, chemical properties… they all match.’

‘So your suspicions were correct.’

‘It looks like they were.’ She’s almost preening. ‘You realise what this means, don’t you? This could be the fourth ever Federation world to record this plant’s growth! Just the fourth!’

‘And you’ll have been the one to discover it here.’

Beverly looks back over her shoulder and arches an eyebrow. ‘I think you mean “we”, Admiral.’

She intends to quip something back, but Beverly’s eyes are clear, her face open; Kathryn feels herself smile, hears herself say, ‘I suppose I do,’ instead.

They had first encountered the plant the previous evening, returning from the village celebrations. The path along the beach still noisy and crowded with tourists, they had taken the forest track in a bid for some peace, which they had found in rhythmic steps and comfortable silence until Beverly stopped abruptly, squinting down at the hint of pink growing at their feet. Kathryn had suggested they come back in daylight, armed with scanning equipment and bio-containers pilfered from Beverly’s medkit, and now here they are. As Kathryn watches Beverly kneel to collect the sample, her fingers elegant and practiced in their efficiency, she says, ‘There’s something special about this flower, isn’t there?’

Beverly seals the bio-container, slides it into her shoulder bag and stands, brushing dirt off her loose-fitting pants. ‘Yes,’ she says, when she looks up. ‘I’d wondered if you’d notice, but of course you did.’

Kathryn says nothing, leaves space for her to continue.

‘Nana and I had just been relocated, and she spent the first few months on Caldos cataloguing every plant in the vicinity for medicinal value. I first encountered this flower then.’ She shakes her head, laughter leaking out the corner of her mouth. ‘It drove me crazy, of course. What twenty-fourth century teenager wants to spend her spare time foraging with her technologically-averse grandmother?’

‘I hear you,’ Kathryn says, chuckling. Sample secure in Beverly’s pack, they step back onto the path to head for home. ‘But that opinion obviously shifted, sometime, given your current activities.’

‘Yes, she eventually sparked my interest with healer horror stories; dangerous allergic reactions that could have been prevented, accidental death by mistaken plants, that sort of thing. She recognised my scientific brain long before I did. We often disagreed when it came to technology, but she taught me a great deal.’ Kathryn stops, holds up a low-hanging tree branch so that Beverly can walk beneath it. Beverly pauses on the other side and says, ‘Nana was responsible for my wanting to pursue a career in medicine.’

Kathryn knows that Felisa Howard passed away while Beverly was still aboard the _Enterprise_ and doesn’t press, allows Beverly the time as they walk, feet crunching over the leaves and twigs and stones that scatter the path. The lowering sun has all but taken the humidity with it, and Kathryn revels in the scent of sweet, foreign fruit and damp bark, feels quietly grateful for the promise of nightfall.

When they have returned to the wider path and are once again walking side-by-side, hands brushing involuntarily every few steps, Kathryn says, ‘I’m still amazed that you were able to recognise that flower in the dark.’ She shakes her head, chuckles. ‘Your eyesight must be better than mine.’

Beverly cracks a smile and says, ‘Well, I did need the tricorder to be certain. But I… I also wasn’t entirely honest with you, just now.’ Kathryn shoots her a surprised look, awaiting the rest. ‘I told you that Nana and I found this plant on Caldos, and that it’s only been documented on four other Federation worlds so far. What I didn’t tell you was that Caldos was the first.’

‘You…’ Kathryn stares at her. ‘You _discovered_ it? And reported it to the Federation Botany Board?’

‘At my insistence, yes. They wanted to name it after Nana but she refused. Wouldn’t even take credit for the discovery! She said she shouldn’t be venerated for something she’d plucked off the ground because its crushed petals make a good burn salve.’ She throws her hands up in the air, animated by old frustration, and Kathryn presses down on a sudden smile. ‘That’s why I recognised it so quickly. Nana and I spent so long analysing it, I…’ She shrugs, embarrassed the way she often is at having revealed something personal. She recovers well, though, grinning teasingly at Kathryn. ‘Not bad, though, was it? For an old woman, my memory for biology is still fairly reliable.’

Kathryn snorts and says, ‘For a scientific genius, Doctor Crusher, you sure do talk a lot of—’

‘Excuse me, Admiral, but are you forgetting that I outrank you?’ Beverly steps closer to her, her playful smirk level with Kathryn’s eyes, and Kathryn can’t help it: she licks her lips. Beverly’s smirk turns knowing. ‘Technically, I mean?’

‘Technically,’ Kathryn says faintly. ‘Of course.’ The knowing expression has spread to Beverly’s eyes, and Kathryn is sorely tempted to do something about that right here, right now, in the middle of this sticky alien forest in the near-dark, but she doesn’t. She just smiles back, gestures in the general direction of their cabin, and says, ‘Shall we head back and get ready for dinner?’

Beverly holds her eyes for a moment longer – a secret, a promise, a blend of coquettishness and confidence that makes Kathryn’s bones go weak – and says, ‘Yes.’

*

After that first meeting, it’s easy for them to run into each other in the corridors of HQ, to take fifteen minutes for a coffee-and-tea break or sit outside in the park to eat lunch. Beverly is quick with her laughter but careful with her trust, and the fact that she takes care not to reveal the deeper parts of herself to just anyone, the fact that she eventually does do so with Kathryn, makes Kathryn treasure the receipt of that trust all the more. Beverly talks easily about her days aboard the _Enterprise_ , about Deanna and Jean-Luc and Will, Alyssa and Data and Guinan, and with every anecdote, drawn vividly through Beverly’s words and gestures, Kathryn begins to feel a little like she knows them, too. She treads carefully around the eggshells of Wesley, taking her cues from the shadows in Beverly’s eyes, and is grateful for the times when Beverly does want to speak about him, glad to listen and glad to provide her the chance to talk.

They bond over their shared interests in ancient Irish poetry and classical music and Creole food; they talk wistfully of one day playing a holodeck adventure together, something set in early 18th century England, something with billowing, impractical dresses and unflattering hairstyles, and promise they’ll do it. That they’ll find the time. That they’ll make it.

*

When Kathryn jolts awake in the middle of the night, heart hammering, sweat on her hands, the first thing she thinks is: _the Borg._ She reaches blindly for her phaser without even calling for the lights and finds only her book, clamps down on the rising panic because where is her phaser, what has she done with her phaser—

—and then memory and awareness seep back into her mind and she closes her eyes, slumps back on the pillow; breathes in from the depths of her diaphragm, slow, measured breaths.

Not the Borg. No more Borg. Just Beverly.

Kathryn contemplates rolling over and trying to go back to sleep, but now that she’s awake, adrenaline pumping, she knows it’s no use. Not just yet. She lies there a moment longer, willing calm into her blood and a neutral expression onto her face, and then she rises. ‘Computer, lights to thirty percent.’

The door to her bedroom has an old-fashioned sliding mechanism, and Kathryn stands before it for a moment, waiting, before she remembers that it can’t sense her presence; she opens it and walks out to find Beverly curled into the sofa in their cosy living area, surrounded by PADDs. Eyes glued on one, a cup coiling steam in her hand, she seems not to register Kathryn at all, and Kathryn uses the moment to appreciate the messy nest of Beverly’s bed-hair, the way her fluffy blue bathrobe swallows her long limbs. Feels a warm rush of fondness for her, for her presence.

Kathryn pads further into the room, her feet still bare, and folds herself into the other end of the sofa, waits in patient silence for Beverly to finish reading and raise her head. She’s so delicate, Kathryn thinks, so lovely; the shadows throw her cheekbones into relief.

Beverly smiles at her. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’

‘I was about to ask you the same thing. How long have you been here?’

‘An hour, maybe two. Did I wake you when I dropped these?’

Kathryn thinks of how she was jolted out of sleep and gives her a rueful smile. ‘Possibly, now that you mention it, though I suppose I should be grateful. I wasn’t dreaming anything pleasant.’

Beverly nods but doesn’t reply, doesn’t ask, and Kathryn is a little surprised at the strength of her relief. Beverly leans forward and stretches her arms up over her head. Kathryn’s eyes follow the movement, appreciative, even as Beverly rotates her neck with a crack that makes them both wince. ‘Would you like a toddy?’ she asks. She tilts her cup invitingly towards Kathryn’s nose, and there’s something… nutmeg. It smells like her childhood, like her mother’s birthday, her sister’s laugh in the dead of winter when they were snowed in.

‘That does smell wonderful,’ Kathryn admits. ‘Your grandmother’s recipe?’

‘Not this time.’ Beverly propels herself off the sofa with a grace that Kathryn would find insulting even in daylight, returns a moment later with an identical cup, warmth and comfort that has begun its work before Kathryn can even take a sip. ‘This recipe is an old Picard family tradition. It’s helped both of us through a few crises over the years.’

The first sip doesn’t disappoint, and Beverly wears her satisfaction like a crown. ‘I’ll bet it has,’ Kathryn says, grinning as she inhales fragrant steam. ‘Some of your exploits on the _Enterprise_ make the Delta Quadrant look like a child’s playground. I was especially interested in one report of you all regressing into—’

‘Yes, Kathryn, and I’m sure you’d be just as eager to discuss the fate of your reptilian offspring with Admiral Paris’ son?’

‘I should never have trusted you with that information. You have too much power.’

Her glare lacks any real malice, and Beverly sees straight through it and zeroes in on the truth; she smiles, slow and sweet, and says, ‘I appreciate your trust, Kathryn. I won’t misuse it.’

In the spotlight of this usually-playful woman’s full attention, her sudden earnestness, Kathryn feels fragile and overexposed; the relative darkness ought to disguise the flow of warmth to her cheeks, but just in case, she clears her throat and says, ‘Thank you.’ Reciprocation is beyond her current abilities, is beyond the heavy knot that is her tongue, so she just thinks it and hopes that having a half-Betazoid best friend has won Beverly some second-hand mind-reading skills.

Kathryn takes a long sip of toddy and relishes the warmth of it all – of the night, of Beverly, of the liquid and its spices as they wind their way down through her chest. She allows herself to hold Beverly’s gaze for a moment too long, and then she sets her cup aside and says, ‘So, are you going to tell me what has so thoroughly captured your interest at—’ she glances down at the chronometer on a PADD beside her, ‘—0240 hours? You regretting your decision to run away with me?’

She’s mostly joking, but it still tastes sweet when Beverly grins and says, ‘Never. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to get out of that last lecture? If you hadn’t suggested sneaking off in the middle of the lunch rush like criminals, I’d have bribed a Ferengi to fake a medical emergency. Preferably off-base.’

Kathryn smirks. ‘Why, Doctor, I’d never have thought you had it in you.’

‘Well, Admiral, there’s a lot about me you have yet to learn.’

Kathryn’s skin is tingling from something more than her drink and she breathes around it, tries not to let the feeling go to her head before she throws herself at Beverly, shameless.

Beverly, also not just promoted for kicks, just smiles and answers the question. ‘These are copies of Nana’s journals from our first few years on Caldos. She was old-fashioned, used to write everything by hand, but I had them all digitised the year after she died.’ Beverly shakes her head, strokes her finger over the screen. ‘It’s been several years since I even opened them, but after today, I wanted to go back and read what she’d written.’

‘And have you?’

‘Not just yet.’ She smiles, rueful. ‘I’m afraid I keep getting side-tracked by other entries.’

‘Well,’ Kathryn teases, ‘you know what they say about good intentions. May I ask what you’ve been reading?’

‘I’ve just been marvelling at the depths of Nana’s patience with me. In here, she doesn’t hold back with the biting commentary on my preteen tantrums, but I can only remember her being sympathetic to my face. Though I suppose that may just be my nostalgia talking.’

‘Maybe,’ Kathryn says. She shuffles closer to her on the sofa. ‘But either way, it must be nice to have such fond memories of her.’

‘It is.’ Beverly smiles at her, small but sincere, and Kathryn feels it like a flutter along her veins. ‘It’s also been quite enlightening to rediscover some of my own history through her eyes. For instance, I had completely forgotten the extent of my heartache when our neighbour’s son Vorin showed not the slightest romantic interest in me.’

Kathryn grins. ‘You fell for a Vulcan?’ At Beverly’s raised eyebrows, she says, ‘The name gave it away. Besides, I can’t imagine any other plausible reason for a teenaged boy rejecting you.’

‘Flatterer.’ Beverly snorts. ‘You didn’t know me as a teenager.’

‘No,’ Kathryn says, laughing, ‘and you didn’t know me, thank the stars. This way, we’re free to pretend to one another that we’ve only ever been the wise and well-adjusted creatures we are today.’

Beverly almost spits out a mouthful of toddy.

Kathryn falls in, of course. She starts by reading over Beverly’s shoulder, first involuntarily and then with purpose when Beverly tilts the PADD in her direction, and soon finds herself hooked. Felisa Howard has written the journals in a practical, informative style that nonetheless manages to be engaging, even entertaining, and the whole exercise offers a rare, precious insight into Beverly’s history. 

It would take mere moments to input the search terms to find the entries relating to Felisa’s discovery of the flower, but Beverly makes no suggestion that they speed up the process, and neither does Kathryn; she is far too desirous of this information to risk prematurely cutting off its flow. She even finds herself becoming as wrapped up in the botanical observations as the anecdotes of Felisa and Beverly’s new life, and she devours the notes and expertly-drawn diagrams with a fervour she hasn’t often felt since her promotion. Though this is pleasure reading hardly worthy of the name research, the chance to devote her attention to science again is exhilarating. She didn’t join Starfleet to spoon-feed baby diplomats or to mediate trade disputes, after all; she joined Starfleet for this, for the quiet camaraderie and the thirst for knowledge that keeps people like them up, wide awake, for hours after they should have gone to bed.

A hint of dawn is beginning to creep through their half-drawn curtains when Beverly murmurs, ‘You know that you’re smiling?’

Engrossed in Felisa’s notes on an unusual species of epiphyte, it takes a moment for Kathryn to glance up, and when she does, her breath catches at the warmth in Beverly’s eyes, and her answer dries out on her tongue.

‘You’ve been smiling for ten minutes straight,’ Beverly tells her. ‘It’s… cute.’

‘ _Cute_?’ Kathryn frowns. ‘I’m a decorated admiral, you know.’

Now Beverly grins. ‘Oh, I know.’

Kathryn doesn’t know quite what to make of that.

*

Somewhere between hits of caffeine and (mostly) good-natured debates about Starfleet politics, Kathryn realises Beverly has opened up her careful bubble of personal space to allow Kathryn in. That she leans in instead of away when Kathryn squeezes her hand or pats her thigh; that she brightens when she sees Kathryn, smiles that smile that makes Kathryn temporarily forget whatever she’s worrying about to smile back. That days without Beverly become a countdown to days with Beverly; that as Beverly’s communiqués become more frequent, they also become less formal, less professional. 

One day, they are eating breakfast together in a small replimat in HQ when Kathryn interrupts her own rant about Admiral Noxx to say, ‘That reminds me – I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our holodeck appointment for the 24th.’

‘Oh, good!’ Beverly laughs at Kathryn’s raised eyebrow. ‘I mean, so do I. I’m going to the science council conference the following day, but I’d been hoping to get there early.’ Before Kathryn can say anything to that, Beverly says, ‘You’re going too, aren’t you?’

‘I am. I’m flattered to have been invited as a last-minute guest lecturer.’ Kathryn sighs, and it’s mostly good-natured. ‘It was supposed to be Captain Ishmar, but Starfleet is refusing to pull him out of his border negotiations. He’s out on the edge of Romulan space and won’t make it back in time, so I have the dubious honour of presenting a series on sentient sporocystic lifeforms.’

‘Oh dear,’ Beverly says, her face twisting in immediate sympathy, and Kathryn feels a powerful wave of gratitude that she won’t have to explain anything further. ‘How many days are you scheduled to speak?’

‘Just the first two, morning and afternoon. Then I’m free. Are you speaking? I’ve barely taken a second glance at the programme.’

‘Not this year,’ Beverly says, grinning. ‘I palmed it off on Kate Pulaski. But I still have to be there, of course, to make nice with the admiralty and convince the council that I won’t misappropriate their resources.’

‘And will you?’

‘Of course not,’ Beverly says, indignant. Then she leans in close and murmurs, right in Kathryn’s ear, ‘I’ll just creatively reallocate my workforce to have them focus on my priorities. What’s the use of being CMO if I can’t institute a little change?’

Kathryn pulls back to grin at her. ‘Beverly Crusher, you may just be my favourite person on this rock.’

Beverly’s mouth is twitching and her cheeks are pink, the way they always get when Kathryn flirts; she clears her throat and asks, ‘Would you like to travel out to the starbase together, then?’ 

‘I would,’ Kathryn says. ‘Very much.’

There is a moment of loaded silence – everything slows, Kathryn holds her breath – and then Beverly smiles, and time rights itself. ‘Good,’ Beverly says. ‘I’d like it too.’

*

A phaser-bolt of sunlight hits her directly between the eyes and Kathryn groans, tries to roll over, and winds up with something hard and sharp digging into her side. Her arm is asleep; she flexes her muscles until the needling sensation has lessened, and then sits up to investigate her predicament. Ah: the sharp thing is the corner of an abandoned PADD. The hard thing is Beverly’s hipbone.

That they’d fall asleep at some point in the early-morning-night was probably predictable; that they should do so with Beverly’s long legs stretched out against the sofa and Kathryn’s nose tucked into her neck is something else. She hasn’t put her bones through this sort of treatment in at least two years – since _Voyager_ got back to the Alpha Quadrant, really – and they’re already creaking their protest. She rolls her neck, tries to stretch out the stiffness in her back without popping anything out of place.

In the silent stillness of a morning already too warm, she manoeuvres her way out of the loose loop of Beverly’s arm and pauses, takes a moment to be grateful to the universe at large that this time, she was the one to wake first. Kathryn’s vanity extends to imagining what she must look like right now – mussed and sleepy, indents from Beverly’s necklace carved into the skin of her cheek – and she runs quick fingers through her hair and then wants to laugh aloud at herself: how long has it been since she’s had the luxury of being this self-conscious? How long has it been since she woke up with someone at all?

It is during the moments she spends in the grip of this arresting, heart-fluttering thought that Beverly too emerges from slumber, arching her back and her neck in a way that makes Kathryn’s mouth go dry. That is Kathryn’s cue to force herself up and away from temptation, and she pads barefoot to the replicator – black coffee for her, black tea for Beverly – mostly just to have something to do. She’d once feared that this drastic difference in ritual beverage would prove too great an obstacle for their friendship to overcome, but they’ve beaten the odds.

Kathryn is just taking the mugs from the replicator when she hears Beverly make a soft noise and then murmur, ‘Good morning.’ Her voice is lower than usual, a little rough from sleep, and the sound curls its way into Kathryn’s stomach, settling there.

‘Good morning,’ Kathryn says. She can’t help smiling at Beverly’s tangled hair and smudged expression. ‘Or at least I assume it’s still morning. I haven’t dared look at the chrono, though, so I can’t make any promises.’ Kathryn is about to perch on the edge of the sofa beside Beverly, but – no, too intimate – takes a seat on the coffee table instead. She hands Beverly her tea and has to chuckle as she takes a sip without even checking the temperature, eyes fluttering closed.

‘You are a blessing, Kathryn Janeway,’ she murmurs. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’

‘Once or twice, but I can never hear it enough. Did you sleep all right? Considering?’

Beverly opens her eyes. ‘Considering my advanced years, you mean?’

Kathryn gives her a look she hopes will be interpreted as “unimpressed”. ‘Considering the sofa, I mean. I’m barely nine years… never mind,’ she says, chuckling, at Beverly’s look. ‘Drink your tea.’ They watch each other for a long, warm second, the coffee beginning to simmer in Kathryn’s blood, and then she asks, ‘Are you hungry? Should we replicate some breakfast? Go out somewhere?’

‘No,’ Beverly says, a beat later. ‘I don’t feel like replicating anything. I’d rather forage.’

Once they’re caffeinated and dressed, Beverly’s hair presentable and Kathryn’s creases straightened out, they shut up the house for the day and head into the burning, glorious sunshine. Beverly’s audibly growling stomach isn’t forced to wait for long; they have scarcely walked half a kilometre before they find a thriving bush laden with this world’s answer to peaches, and beyond that, a grove of ripe nuts. They breakfast cross-legged on a long, jagged outcropping of rock, Beverly’s light summer scarf as a makeshift picnic blanket between them.

They eat in silence, the warmth of the sun lending longevity to their morning languor, and Kathryn, belly full and fingers stained, lies back and throws an arm across her eyes. ‘This is almost too decadent, isn’t it? To forage on a beautiful world when we don’t need to, to sit here and eat our fill and only have to assign about 12% of our brain power to the concern that some alien species might attack us?’

When Beverly doesn’t respond, Kathryn removes her hand and squints over to find her smirking. ‘What?’

‘You.’

‘What about me?’

Beverly tosses a piece of fruit into her mouth and chews. ‘You’re so…’

‘Optimistic?’

Beverly laughs. ‘Not the word I was looking for. But you’re right; the last time I tried to have a picnic was in 2375, when the Son’a were chasing us into the hills.’

‘The Ba’ku mission,’ Kathryn says, after a moment. ‘I remember reading about it. Not at the time,’ she amends, as she registers Beverly’s surprise, ‘but later, once we were back in contact with Command. Admiral Paris brought me up to speed on all I’d missed.’

Beverly grimaces. ‘That must have been a riot. Honestly, you might have been better off in the Delta Quadrant during the Dominion War.’

‘Perhaps,’ Kathryn murmurs. Then she thinks of Species 8472, of the Borg, of the Hirogen, and thinks, perhaps not. They lapse into companionable silence, basking in the heat.

Sometime later, when Kathryn’s neck and chest are beginning to bead with sweat, she makes a half-hearted attempt to move and says, ‘We should go.’

No answer.

With effort, Kathryn sits up and brushes grit off the back of her shirt, prods Beverly with a toe. ‘Hey, Commander, are you still with me?’

Beverly makes an unimpressed sound and opens her eyes, squints back at Kathryn. ‘You know this is why I never go on vacation?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I turn into an amorphous pile of sludge the moment I actually start to relax. It’s dangerous.’

Kathryn snorts. ‘Yes, I’d heard that “remain stressed so as to avoid the inconveniences of relaxation” was the latest trend in medical diagnoses.’

Now Beverly does sit up. ‘Hilarious,’ she grumbles. She holds out her last piece of fruit to Kathryn. ‘Eat this, won’t you? I’m stuffed, and you could do with a little extra. You must be the only admiral in the history of Starfleet to lose weight _after_ being promoted to a desk job.’

‘Demoted, more like,’ Kathryn mutters. ‘I hardly need three meals a day to authorise supply requisitions, do I?’ At Beverly’s frown, she sighs and says, ‘But I’m not going to argue with you. Hand it over.’

Kathryn holds out her hand, but Beverly surprises her by sliding across the distance and, careful and playful and brazen all at once, slipping the last wedge of fruit between Kathryn’s lips. Kathryn accepts it, darts her tongue out to catch the juice lingering on her fingers, and Beverly bites her own lip, doesn’t draw her hand away; rather lets her thumb brush soft, almost teasing, over Kathryn’s mouth and down her jaw. Kathryn is breathless, skin tingling, when Beverly finally breaks the contact, and Beverly’s smirk is so terrible, so heated, so knowing, that Kathryn is grateful for the last sip of water she can toss back to buy her some recovery time.

Beverly merely picks up the scarf in silence and heads for the forest, smug and regal and infuriating and beautiful as ever. They have one more night before they are due to return to Starfleet and work and real life, one night to pass together beneath the same stars, the same roof. One night, and Kathryn has waited long enough.

*

As always, the science council’s annual conference is held in the purposed-designed academic wing of Starbase 6, and arriving there feels a little like walking into a replica of Starfleet Academy transplanted into deep space. Kathryn and Beverly are among the early arrivals, and they spend the first evening settling into their accommodations and making prophylactic small talk with the other speakers in the hopes that they can escape it the rest of the week.

Kathryn’s attention never sways far from Beverly’s position; it’s a breathtaking thing to watch her fall into easy conversation with any scientist who crosses her path and charm dry, humourless admirals with a well-timed smile. This is only the second time Kathryn has witnessed this version of Beverly, but half an hour of finding her eye drawn to the bright fall of Beverly’s hair, to her animated gestures and radiant professional confidence, is enough for Kathryn to understand that Beverly was promoted for her people skills as well as her medical knowledge. 

When she circles back around to join Kathryn by the snack table, Kathryn tells her as much, and Beverly laughs. ‘I’m not laughing at you,’ she says, leaning in as she fills a small plate. ‘I’m just relieved to hear you say so. You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to cure my foot-in-mouth disease.’

‘ _Really_?’ Kathryn asks.

Beverly quirks an eyebrow at her. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you about it, one day.’

‘I hope you will.’

‘I might consider it if you’ll tell me something in return.’

‘A tough negotiator; I like that. I accept your terms.’

‘Good,’ Beverly murmurs, a piece of cheese forgotten halfway to her lips. ‘I look forward to it.’ Then she winks at Kathryn and saunters away, leaving Kathryn standing there, motionless, immobilised by desire.

* 

‘It’s funny how five days can feel like five hours,’ Beverly says, then glances over at Kathryn. ‘Or five years.’

‘Ouch,’ Kathryn says, but she laughs, leans back on her elbows on the pink-hued sand. They are sitting on the beach, their bare feet stretched out to the point where the tide can’t quite reach, the point where wet sand becomes dry. Kathryn is silent for a long moment, watching the moonlight bounce across the water, waves chasing waves, before she sighs and says, ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to go back just yet. My desk holds limited appeal after this week.’

She feels Beverly look over at her, feels her shift closer on the sand, arm against arm, leg against leg. She feels a laugh vibrate through Beverly’s body as she says, ‘What kind of cover story did Admiral Nechayev have in mind for us, I wonder?’

Kathryn grins. ‘Top secret intelligence, probably. Recon for Section 31. Or she’ll glare at anyone who asks and say, “It’s classified”.’

‘I hardly know her,’ Beverly says. ‘I can see I’ll have to change that.’

‘I’ll introduce you when we’re back at HQ. You can bond over your love of tea and absurdist theatre while I read reports.’

‘Ooh,’ Beverly says, and Kathryn laughs.

‘Mission accomplished.’

‘Thank you,’ Beverly says.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘I mean for this – this holiday, this whole week. For coming up with this magnificent escape plan.’ She nudges Kathryn with her shoulder and then stays there, her closeness thrumming through Kathryn’s blood. ‘And for asking me to come with you. I’ve had a wonderful time.’

Her voice is light, but there is an earnestness to it at odds with her tone, an earnestness that makes Kathryn’s breath hitch. ‘It was my pleasure,’ she manages. Beverly’s eyes flick down to her lips and back up again, reflex or maybe something else, and Kathryn takes the leap, takes Beverly’s hand, feels the thrill spread through the rest of her body when Beverly twines their fingers, purposeful and strong. ‘There’s no one I’d rather have asked. I want you to know that.’

‘I do know,’ Beverly says. She angles her body closer to Kathryn’s, raises her free hand and touches it to Kathryn’s shoulder, to her collarbone; strokes up and along and comes to rest, gentle, at her throat. Kathryn swallows, mouth dry, and Beverly smiles a wicked smile that Kathryn feels deep in her gut. ‘Sometimes,’ Beverly murmurs, her eyes following the path of her fingers up Kathryn’s neck, her jaw, and Kathryn fights to keep her eyes open. ‘Sometimes things happen on vacation that don’t translate to real life. People get caught up in the romance of being away from real life and they…’ She cups Kathryn’s cheek in her hand, half laughs. ‘I suppose I’m trying to tell you that I’d… like for this, if this is what I think it is, to be something other than that.’ Beverly swallows now, too, and though there are nerves in her voice, her eyes are steady. ‘If that’s what you want, too.’

‘It is,’ Kathryn says. She lets out a throaty laugh, relief and delight descending at once. ‘Oh, Beverly, it is. I’ve wanted you for months. I’ve cared for you, deeply, for longer than that. This week might provide a convenient opportunity for us to… act, let us say, but I do hope it won’t have to be the only time.’

Beverly is sitting close, but she leans in closer still, presses her forehead to Kathryn’s and says, just short of shy, ‘Does that mean I can stop talking and kiss you?’

‘I think it does,’ Kathryn says, and proves herself wrong by kissing Beverly first. Her efforts at gentle reverence are thwarted almost immediately by Beverly’s hot, open mouth, her determined tongue, and Kathryn moans when Beverly’s hand slides around her neck and into her hair, blunt nails scratching gently along her scalp. Kathryn twists her body in place to get closer, and it works – Beverly’s breasts brush her own, soft through thin layers of material, their hands grasping – and then Kathryn’s neck cracks, and something in the vicinity of Beverly’s shoulders cracks, and they break apart, derailed by laughter. ‘As lovely as this is,’ Kathryn says, voice breathy, ‘I would suggest perhaps—’

‘Going back? Yes, excellent. Let’s do that. We can transport.’

‘We can...’ Kathryn blinks. ‘Of course we can transport. Beverly, you’re a genius.’

‘No, I’m not.’ Beverly grins at her, runs a fingernail along Kathryn’s kiss-tingled lower lip. ‘I’ve just addled your brain.’

‘No point denying that.’ Kathryn pulls the bungalow key from her pocket and activates it. ‘Site-to-site transport for Kathryn Janeway and Beverly Crusher, voice print authorisation.’

The communicator beeps its assent, and the beach disappears.

Beverly is laughing against Kathryn’s neck as they unlock the door and stumble inside, Kathryn calling for the lights around eager hands. ‘My room or yours?’ Beverly asks. Her fingers have worked their way beneath the hem of Kathryn’s loose shirt and are stroking her skin, soft and maddening, and Kathryn gasps as her muscle jumps. ‘Much as I’m tempted by the romanticism of falling to passion in the living room, I’m not sure either of our bones can take a second night on the couch.’

Kathryn laughs, helpless with affection, and says, ‘No, I’m afraid you’re right about that. I think your bed’s bigger.’ She feels herself flush, a misplaced self-consciousness that rises in response to Beverly’s conspiratorial grin.

‘Come on, then,’ Beverly says, grabbing her hand and tugging Kathryn over to her half-open door. She pauses when they reach it, turns, doesn’t drop Kathryn’s hand as she says, ‘You’re sure this is what you want?’

Kathryn nods, closes the distance between them so she can stroke her thumb down Beverly’s magnificent cheek. ‘Oh, yes,’ she says – husks, really – and it’s a sound Beverly approves of, if Kathryn can trust the way her eyes darken in response. ‘I want to touch you, Beverly Crusher. I want to be touched by you.’ She kisses the point of bone her thumb has just left, feels Beverly make a sound that is almost a moan. ‘I want you to tell me what you like and what you don’t like.’ She smirks, presses closer. ‘I want to take advantage of a time-honoured tradition of expressing affection, and make you—’

Beverly cuts her off with her lips, with the delicious strength of her dance-toned muscles, and manoeuvres her into the room, across to the bed. Kathryn pulls Beverly down on top of her with a grin, and doesn’t let go.

*

Later, when they are lying curled together in Beverly’s bed – boneless and tingling, sweat-studded skin just beginning to cool – Kathryn says, ‘What do you say, then? Do you want to take this back with us to Earth?’ She rolls onto her side, trails her fingers down Beverly’s chest, sweeps a thumb indulgently over her nipple. She feels a renewed thrill of warmth when Beverly arches up into it and sighs her contentment. ‘If you’ve changed your mind, you only need to tell me, and we’ll leave this here. A celebration of your rediscovery of Felisa’s flower. A lovely single instance that I will treasure forever.’

Beverly slides in closer, one silken thigh insinuating its way between Kathryn’s, and moves Kathryn’s hand so that it’s covering her breast more fully, leaves her resting hand on top. Kathryn welcomes the hint and starts massaging, catching the hardening nipple with the pad of her thumb. Beverly’s breathing grows shallower as she says, ‘And if I want to take it back with us? If I want this to be the first of many times?’

Kathryn kisses her, hot and shameless and open-mouthed, and revels in the warm press of skin against skin; in the purposeful shift of Beverly’s thigh; in the hands that flutter up her back and sink into her hair. Beverly is smiling at her, tentative and a little shy despite their nakedness, despite their positions, and Kathryn’s heart tightens and loosens at once. Gently, she brushes a lock of hair out of Beverly’s eyes, and tells her, ‘I would say “good”, because I want that too.’ Then she grins. ‘So how about we go for the second time right now?’

*

By the time they materialise on the transporter pad at Starfleet Headquarters, vacation behind them, almost eighteen hours have passed. A delay at Jupiter Station and a slow passenger ship to Earth sit heavy in their bones as they head to Kathryn’s apartment – it’s close, within walking distance, and they both want to breathe in the mild afternoon air. They drop their bags in the hallway, and while Beverly sets about opening the windows to chase away the dust, Kathryn beelines for the replicator and orders them each a glass of red wine.

‘Beverly,’ she says, when they appear before her, ‘do you realise we haven’t eaten since breakfast? Whenever that was?’ She considers feeding poorly-replicated caramel brownies to the CMO of Starfleet and grimaces. ‘What would you like to do?’

‘Thanks,’ Beverly says, accepting a glass as Kathryn walks over. Then: ‘Well, I suppose you could cook something.’ In the sudden, panicked thudding of her heart that follows, Kathryn almost misses the twinkle – Beverly is an accomplished actress, but it’s a twitch of the eyebrow that does it. A tell. ‘Cheers,’ she says, merrily unapologetic as she clinks.

Kathryn breathes out a desperate laugh and takes a long, slow, decadent sip of wine; she closes her eyes on the flavour, savours the fruity richness, and then she swallows and says, ‘You are a wicked woman, Doctor Crusher.’

Beverly arches an eyebrow and says, ‘I’ll drink to that. How about we replicate something easy and then I’ll prove it?’

Kathryn flicks through the three replicated dishes she knows she can make without setting something on fire, swallows around her desire. ‘How does, ah, pasta sound?’

Beverly grins and says, ‘Quick.’

Pasta it is.


End file.
